A Lover of the Light
by LittlePoppett
Summary: My Christmas fanfic contribution. AU from the 2011 CS. Was originally meant to be all Christmas themed, but now is their day to day life - AU but not modern day. Snippets of Sybil and Tom's early married life in Dublin. This is the lease inspiring summary ever! I'm ever so sorry! :P Just give it a try - for me! LP. x
1. Chapter 1

**Same people as THBMHTY, different circumstances, as there was already a bit of something Christmassey in there. I'm being lazy and don't want to come up with a new version of Tom's family really! I will also put it out there that I know more of the Mass in the first bit should have involved latin, or perhaps Irish Gaelic but my knowledge of either is pretty shady so I am sticking with English even though it's probably not accurate! **

Christmas 1919

His mother kept shooting her glances at mass; questioning, concerned glances that told Sybil that Mrs Branson could see through even her best brave face. As they all went up for Holy Communion she stayed in her seat, feeling like her stomach was swooping around her abdomen, twisting and turning, threatening to betray her if she stood to go up for a blessing.

Tom squeezed her hand as he got up and she proffered a weak smile, she watched him go up with his brothers, one of his nieces in front of him, a hand on her shoulder. He lifted her and the priest blessed her, and then pressed a white disc into Tom's cupped hands. The smell of the incense was filling her head, making it feel foggy and a throbbing was beginning just above her temples. Tom took a sip from the wine and crossed himself, genuflecting before the altar before he made his way back along the rows of pews. The church was silent, but for the words coming from before the altar, the barely audible sound of people accepting the Eucharist, those who had already received it were settling on their knees at their seats, heads bowed, lips moving in silent prayer.

It was beautiful really, the ceremony of it all. The tradition, the way everyone knew what to do and what to say in all of the right places, years of repeating the same familiar rituals and actions. Tom hadn't been to Midnight Mass at Christmas in six years and yet here he was, the words and actions flowing out of him like he had never been away.

"Are you alright?" He settled next to her again in the pew, tilted his head toward her ear so no one else could hear. She felt his concerned eyes on her, felt one of his hands slip into hers.

"Mmm." She nodded, looking at him and squeezing his fingers. The candles around the church made the warm, golden light dance across his eyes. "I'm just concentrating." Before she could add 'on not being sick all over these missals', Mrs Branson had tapped her son on the shoulder and gestured at him to kneel forward onto the hassock. He was diligent, obedient to her order but kept his hand in Sybil's.

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing marked the end of the mass and they filtered out past the nativity crib – the baby Jesus now in position in the manger, placed there with careful ceremony by an altar boy. Children skipped about, excited at the prospect of the day to come. Sybil was thankful for the winteriness of the evening when the cold hit her as they drew closer to the exit. Tom dipped his hand in the holy water and crossed himself, he kept his body close to hers protecting her from the crush of people heading into the fresh air. She felt it cool her, seeming to blast away the stuffy fog that had accumulated in her forehead. Snow had settled on the ground in the hour or so they had been inside, it dusted the streets, perfect and untouched like someone had sprinkled Dublin with diamonds. Tom kept her close to him as they shuffled into the porch, his hand on the small of her back, a constant, comforting reminder that he would catch her if she fell. They lost the rest of his family in the masses of people making their way out of the door and for a moment she was glad, glad for a moment it was only Tom beside her – her partner in crime in all of this, who knew everything she did.

"You've gone a bit green." He whispered into her ear after he had wished the priests, lined up outside, a Happy Christmas. She had nodded her sentiment and smiled at them; still unsure she could trust herself to open her mouth. "Is it bad tonight?"

She nodded, turning into him slightly, "It's fine, I'm fine. I think it was all the people and the incense and being cramped inside. I'll be alright now, the fresh air feels good."

His face gave away that he didn't believe a word of her assurances, "You're trooping on with a brave face?" He spotted his mother, attempting to herd her children and grandchildren together, no doubt about to give instructions on tomorrow.

"She's got me figured out you know." Sybil nodded in Peggy Branson's direction, watching as she wrapped a blanket around baby Michael who was asleep against Bridget's chest. "She knows there is something going on." They slowly made their way over toward her, their tones hushed as the talked.

"Well my Ma is just going to have to learn that she doesn't need to be the first to know everything all of the time." Sybil turned her face to his, his arm around her shoulder and raised an eyebrow at him. "I know, I know – easier said that done. She is just very astute. She's been there enough times herself, she probably knew before we did." Peggy spotted them then, flashing them a smile and gesturing at them to come over, a twinkle in her eyes, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Here goes, let the interrogation begin."

**Decided I'd do this a multi-(short)chapter thing, so I guarantee I get something Christmassey up while it is still Christmas! :p Will probably be a continuation of this Christmas (1919 – not 2012 :p) but if you would rather little bits from a number of Christmases through their marriage let me know, as I'm yet to write the rest I can still be swayed! (I'll stop now before my comments are longer than the story!) Review to let me know what you think! **

**Happy Christmas everyone and I hope 2013 is a fantastic year for you all. All my festive love, LP. x**


	2. Chapter 2

**I have no idea if Dublin did have a winter as harsh as the one I describe in 1919-1920, I could check but if it turned out to be a lovely, mild winter without even a snowflake this chapter would all be scrapped. Some may call it lack of research, I'm going with artistic license ;) I bet you cannot imagine what inspired this…*sits shivering in bed with two jumpers on, cursing the snow outside and the sub-par heating* - send me warm thoughts (I know, I know, we are such wusses over here about snow!) There are bits I love about this chapter and bits I hate, but could not seem to improve upon. I hope you enjoy some of it at least, read and review if you would be so kind; I love to read your thoughts! LP. x**

January 1920

Sybil sighed as she looked through a circle cleared in the fogginess of the window by her hand. More snow was coming down in almost impenetrable sheets, blanketing the city in its cold, glittering whiteness. She had grown to hate it. Dublin snow seemed an entirely different beast to the snow she had grown up with at Downton. Then there had been nothing so important that it couldn't be cancelled or put off when the weather was inclement. She and her sisters would stay cocooned in the sitting room, books in hand and a fire crackling in the grate, warming their fingers and toes. They had played in it when they were younger, but only stayed out until the coldness penetrated their coats and hats and boots, then would retreat indoors to warm baths and restoring cocoa. But here, there were things to do and places to be - the hospital, the grocers and the butchers, the trek to the post office to send off her letters and worst of all the icy early morning dash to the privy to empty the pot. Midwinter was in theory warmer here, in the middle of the city than it had been in the countryside, open to the elements and without the same accumulation of heat from bodies and stoves and fireplaces that warms cities almost accidentally. But for some reason, whether it was a further symptom of her pregnancy or merely the slight damp of the houses, this winter's cold went right through to her bones and she couldn't get warm until Tom climbed in bed beside her of an evening and let her entwine her exhausted body with his, borrowing his warmth for the night.

Was it not enough that she was pulled from this each morning by the feeling that her stomach was doing somersaults, the feeling of bile rising in her throat. She would leave the cocoon and find herself more often than not leaning over the bowl at the washstand, lifting her feet in the moments between retching, the cold floor making her toes ache. He would place the eiderdown around her shoulders and push her hair away from her face and eventually lead her back to the bed when she fell silent, her stomach empty but her head still swimming with nausea. He would tuck her in, sheets still warm from their bodies and let her sleep until the beginnings of the sunrise shot colour through the black sky. He would empty the bowl and wash and dress and start the stove going downstairs so that when she eventually did shuffle downstairs the kitchen at least was warm. He would rouse her with a kiss to the forehead, a hand that lingered on the still imperceptible and imagined swell of her stomach before slipping from the house, to work, with words of his love.

Somehow, on those mornings as she battled with the stove or stepped tentatively onto the icy pavements, the cold seemed like an insult, an added affliction she wasn't quite sure what she had done to deserve the punishment of. There was a new terror to it now, getting about when the streets were covered in ice – or worse covered in snow that rid patches of ice. With the first snowfall in November she had skipped about with a sort of confidence, knowing that being cautious on ice was more dangerous than not – advice bestowed on her by some unknown figure from her past, a Scottish friend of her father's she thought, long forgotten but for his words. She had slipped twice and picked herself up, cursing but knowing the worst that could come of it was an ugly bruise. But now, in this second, bleaker coming of winter she was not the only one to think of when she slipped. Knowing their child was in her protection, sleeping beneath her skin had knocked all of her confidence out of her and since mid-December she had been unable to throw the seemingly primal need to be cautious, perhaps overly so. It had been her undoing in the end, she'd taken a fall just the week before that had left her more than a little shaken.

_It had been a Friday and unusually she hadn't had a shift, she'd been to the fishmongers for something for dinner, and buoyed by a letter from her Mama who was now almost frenzied with excitement about her first grandchild – it was still only mid-January how she would cope waiting until the summer, Sybil wasn't sure. She had gone to the shop in the little side alley from which Mrs Branson got her fabric, and there was a haberdashery of sorts next door. She'd spent a good twenty minutes stroking the fabrics, crisp cottons and soft flannels, and great fluffy balls of wool. She made the purchases in her head; some of the fine white wool for a little matinee jacket and perhaps a hat and little booties to match, something more substantial for a blanket, and some of the cotton to make smocks – she could put her embroidery lessons to use, little pink roses for a girl or blue edging for a boy. They would need to wait a while, buy things bit by bit, squirrel them away in the bottom drawer of their dresser that she had quietly cleared and lined with fresh paper. _

_They were both all too aware that they mustn't rush into getting things, there was no benefit in getting anything this early and there was always the risk of little things bought in excitement causing heartbreak should anything happen. Cora's miscarriage had haunted Sybil since finding out she was pregnant, it had struck her as strange because she'd never really dwelled on it in the past – even when it had happened. It had been so soon after they were told and with nothing visible to remind them all that there was to be a new baby she hadn't really thought about it as a baby back then, she hadn't imagined another little Crawley, her parents' fourth child. But she had dreamt about him for the first in the week after having her suspicions confirmed by the doctor, dreamt about the little brother who would now be approaching six, running around Downton and no doubt causing havoc and joy in equal measure. She had dreamt about him regularly since, but hadn't mentioned him to anyone, not even Tom and especially not her mother. It was just her body reacting to the change going on within it, making her think of and suddenly see babies everywhere. _

_Sybil had fallen in love with some edging lace in the haberdashery, imagining it on a little singlet or bonnet and not finding any harm in such a little purchase, had bought it with a little of the money her mother had sent with the letter, a gift to help with the baby's layette, and tucked the little brown paper parcel into her basket, as far from the fish as it could go. A blocked drain had made water pool around the exit to the shop and it had frozen over, invisible to anyone who wasn't paying minute attention, beneath a dusting of snow, and she had inevitably slipped, landing in a heap on her side holding out her hand to break her fall. Her basket and its packages had gone flying, skidding across the ground, the paper they were wrapped in turning a dark brown in the wet. The woman who had served her inside came rushing out, righted Sybil, helped her to her feet and checked her over for cuts and grazes, she'd returned the basket of parcels to Sybil's arms. Sybil had had to battle with her, turning down her offers of a cup of tea and some time to warm by the fire, insisting she needed to get back home. She found herself at home without really being aware of her journey and her hand shook as she tried to get the key into the lock. She unpacked the food quickly, putting it away in a daze drifting from one side of the kitchen to the other. When she got to the bottom of the basket she found the package of lace, the string holding it together stained with dirt, the paper in tatters where water had weakened its fibres and made to holes. She ran her fingers across the loops of silky thread, greying in some places where it too had become damp. Something about it made her cry, how she had ruined its beauty so easily. She was shaken and she could feel it wearing off – the rush of adrenalin comes over you when you fall or trip or drop something that makes you carry on, numbs the pain, stops your tears. She slowly became aware of a pain in her wrist, a slight swelling at the juncture to her thumb, what felt like a bruise blooming along her thigh, and the ache in her side and low in her stomach. She tried to convince herself it was just her muscles, jerked by the fall and now protesting. She would be fine; they would be fine. She filled a hot water bottle and took herself to bed, pulling the eiderdown over herself in the cold room without undressing. Tom came home to find her like that some hours later, the little bundle of lace clasped in her swollen hand, tearstains on her cheeks and eyes wide as he came into her line of sight. _

_It all seemed to come running out of her; what had happened that day, the dreams – the little brother she couldn't stop imagining, that she was worried she might have hurt it when she landed – hurt the baby, just how scared she was. How all of this terrified her not as much as it excited her, but how terrifying this was – a journey into the complete unknown. How exhausting it all was but how she hadn't wanted to say it, she had wanted to prove herself not so much to Tom himself as all those who thought them foolish – which was, after all, almost everyone. _

_He had wrapped his body around her and pressed a kiss to her temple, letting her sob into his shirt, feeling her body relax against him as she slipped into sleep, spent from her own emotion. He pushed her hair from her face and pried the lace from her clasped fingers and put it to soak clean in a bowl in the kitchen. He called on the doctor to come later that evening, ignoring Sybil's worries at the cost. He attended to her wrist, a bad sprain but nothing more and Tom left the room as he examined her, more for the old doctor's sake than his own feelings of propriety. _

_The doctor emerged from the bedroom, pulling on his coat, his leather bag in one hand to find Tom waiting outside, hands in pockets, leaning his back against the wall._

"_All fine as far as I can tell for now, though if anything untoward happens I can pay another visit. Women's bodies are able to tolerate more than we or they think, slips and trips and falls, and still all is well. Keep an eye on her Mr Branson, she's a little shaken and that wrist will take some time to heal itself, but nothing more serious than that." Tom had nodded, thanked the doctor and led him to the door. "And might I suggest you get some rest yourself young man, you look done in – enjoy this, your last few months alone together, you will treasure the memory of them one day, someway or another." _

She was trying to work herself up to going to the market today, to brave the cold and the Saturday morning rush. Nothing seemed less appealing to her at that moment.

"No need to go out in it today," she felt his arms slip around her waist, his body warm against her back, even through her nightdress. She turned to begin to protest, to list all the things she was meant to do that day, but he pressed his chin against her shoulder and silenced her. "No, not today. You've earned a rest, a full day in bed I think – doctors orders."

She smiled and clasped her hands over his, at her waist. "So you're a doctor now are you, Tom Branson?" She turned to face him, glad of his kindness, his ability to sense what she needed even when she herself was too polite to ask. "Well, if it's doctor's orders I suppose I must go along with it."

He pressed a kiss to her lips, his thumb gently running along the bandages on her wrist. "I'll go to the grocers and drop by Ma's on the way to tell her you're a little under the weather, not up to tonight. She won't mind – I'll tell her we'll be round tomorrow instead, after church, she'll be glad of it, having a few more in the house for lunch."

She curled back in bed and slept, for the first time in a while not thinking of the sibling she never met, but a clear dreamless sleep that knocked the fog from her head. Tom had returned by then, snow sticking hair to his forehead, his fingers bright pink from the cold. He got back in beside her, making her yelp as his cold limbs invaded her warm bed, and pulled her against his chest. And that was how they remained for much of the day, reading books and drinking tea and eating the stew his mother had sent him back with. They were in their own little bubble of warmth, a safe nest away from the sharpness of the outside world. A rare and happy day spent doing nothing in particular in each other's company – perfectly content to just _be _alongside the other.

A memory of a day they would both treasure in the months to come, when they went from two to three.


End file.
